Everyday People
by Cameo Moon
Summary: A series of one shots. Not everyone is a hero, not all mutations are extraordinary. Everyday mutants are everyday people. Just like you and me.
1. Technicolor Bunhead

Just like the title says- every day people, a series of one shots. Not everyone is a hero, not all mutations are extraordinary. Everyday mutants are everyday people. Just like you and me.

Disclaimer: I don't own the xmen, I just like playing in their back yard. Rated T for dealing with heavy issues in upcoming vignettes. Nothing to major, but just to be on the safe side.

* * *

"Hey Jenny, I have a good one for you!" Steve saunters over to me, as I'm sewing ribbons on my new Pointe shoes and stretching in the dressing room between rehearsals. 

"What's that?" I say looking up from my work, pushing my middle split just a bit further, purposely ignoring the look he gave me as I did so.

"A rabbi and a donkey walk into a barre." As the only two Jewish dancers in our small town ballet company, he feels compelled to tell me every Judaica related joke he runs across.

"What?" I blink up at him, picturing a fully dressed Orthodox Rabbi and a rather large mule walking face first into a wooden pole that's been affixed to a wall.

"You know, a barre." Steve mimics throwing back a shot.

"Wouldn't that be painful?" I went back to my shoes, completely uncomprehending.

"A **_bar_ **not a barre, honestly. I knew you were a natural blonde." He drops down a few feet from me, and starts doing a few stretches of his own.

Because today, I am a blonde. Yesterday my hair was blue. The day before that, it was green.

You see, I have an addiction. To hair dye that is.

At least that's what I tell people.

It's easier than the actual explanation anyway. See, I regrow my hair every day. At least once a day. Thing is, it never comes in the same color twice in a row. I can't think of a color it _hasn't_ come in as at least once. Natural looking or otherwise.

It may sound cool and all, but believe me, it's a pain. It usually starts during the night. I wake up in the morning to find clumps of hair on my pillow. When I'm done showering, I'm as bald as my eighty-four year old grandfather. By the time I pad back to my bedroom, it's started growing in again. That's when the migraine hits. Because my hair _will_ grow back to its normal length- just below my shoulders, before I leave for the studio.

It's sort of my daily surprise- 'what color will it grow in today?'

Don't get me wrong, I like surprises, but sometimes it grows in the most god awful colors at the most incontinent times. Like the time it fell out after a bad rehearsal and grew in puce right before my premier as Odette in my little company's performance of Swan Lake.

Thank god for wigs, that's all I have to say.

It does have a tendency to throw off the classical ballerina image. All long legs and graceful arms, black leotard with pink tights, thigh high knit leg warmers, hair in a high bun- Technicolor or otherwise. Lately it's been on a streak of rainbow bright type colors. Much to the chagrin of my artistic director and ballet mistress.

"Jen-nieeee-feeer! Look zo beautee-ful vith normal hair color. You have audition for Boston Ballet en one week. Can't you keep hair pree-zentable color for vonce?" The ballet mistress presides over the dressing room, graceful strides leaving no doubt as to who reigns supreme over _her_ dancers.

At the sight of her unorthodox student looking like a lovely and demure little _danseur_, she is ecstatic.

"Sure Miss Uralsky, I'll try."

* * *

Next one shot: Great Expectations 


	2. Great Expectations

Abrupt mood change here! From light and fluffy to dark, dark stuff. Ye be warned!

* * *

"How? How could it be?" John paced the room, barely restraining the urge to strike his wife across the face. "How could YOU let this happen?"

Science had proven that it was the father who passed the X gene to an unborn child, but in the Calloway household, all things that displeased John, the master of the household, were inevitably somebody else's fault.

"I tried sweetheart, I really did." His wife was desperate to placate him.

"Not hard enough." Every word was clipped. Dangerous.

"I went to prenatal yoga every day, I only ate organic food, I went to the doctor for regular checkups. She said the baby was fine. Wonderful in fact. Perfectly healthy, reaching all the prenatal mile markers." She was attempting to figure out where she had gone wrong herself… they had both been so careful.

"It is NOT fine. It's unnatural. We have to get rid of it." A look of hatred crossed his face.

Amy folded her arms around the bare detectable bulge in her abdomen protectively. "It's OUR baby. How could you say such a thing?"

"It is not 'our baby', it's YOUR abomination!" He was no longer speaking to his wife, he was speaking to the woman who had failed him.

"But abortion is wrong. If anyone at church found out, we'd never be allowed to go back." She stared at the man she thought was her husband, numbly wondering how any human being could be so cold.

"God would understand. Sometimes you have to use one abomination to get rid of another."

Two thoughts crossed Amy's mind: that it was mighty presumptuous to assume anything on God's behalf, and that two wrongs don't make a right.

"I can't kill our baby." Amy turned away from her husband and glanced sadly out of the darkened window that overlooked the countryside.

"How long until you've reached the end of the first trimester?" He was Master Calloway now, decisions made, damage control under way.

"Three and a half weeks." She whispered.

"Then you have three and a half weeks to decide. Me…" John stood just behind his wife, mouth inches from her ear. Wrapping his arms around her in an uncomfortably tight vice like grip. "… or the baby."  



	3. headshots

I have the biggest audition of my life tomorrow, and here I am, sitting here drowning in my own tears.

Don't call me stupid, don't call me paranoid, this is a very real concern. I want this so much.

Yeah, I know I passed their preliminary screening. But they haven't actually met me yet.

Of course they've seen my headshots! That's just the problem.

Classic headshots? Black and white. Me? Not so much.

Well of course I know no one is really black and white, but I look so _normal_ in those pictures. I think that's why I like them so much.

Sign of a good photographer I think. Make the weirdo look normal.

What color was my hair that day? Blue or green I think, I can't remember. Something dark.

And just what am I supposed to put down when they ask for hair color anyway? _'Yes?' 'See daily special menu?' 'I'd tell you, but I'm not psychic?' _

God, why do I always let the little things get me down? I know, I know, it's all about talent. So they say.

Open minded. I have to stay open minded.

After all, if I don't want them to judge me differently because I'm a mutant, what right have I to judge them because they're not?

* * *

Ok, call this a second drabble on Jenny. I don't plan on writing a story on her, this is more of me getting out my own audition nerves. I should be working on my other story, but right now my mind is only focused on tomorrow. Wish me luck! 


	4. Very Punny

Jesus Garcia always hated puns.

The only thing he hated more than puns were introductions.

"Hay-soos, it's Hay-soos." He was always insist, whether the person he was introducing himself to was an English or Spanish speaker.

It was never, under any circumstances, "Jesus".

But at his early morning post as lifeguard to the community pool, he didn't have to worry about introductions at the moment.

At eight in the morning during summer vacation, he had the area to himself. He might even be able to get a few laps in before anyone came to swim- it would be back to the chair until three that afternoon then.

He had counted himself lucky to get the job, apparently there had been some competition for it.

The interview had been the only time he hadn't minded the joke fate had played on him, via genetics and his parent's choice of names.

"Tell me son, have you ever worked as a lifeguard before?" The owner of the pool seemed to have his doubts about the boy.

"No sir, I haven't." He kept a steady gaze with the older man, hoping to gain his confidence.

"We usually don't take anyone under sixteen."

"Please sir, I'll be sixteen in a few months. I need this job so I can help my family with the bills."

"Convince me. Why should I give you this job?"

The boy took a deep breath. "Watch this sir."

Coming to the ledge of the pool, he closed his eyes, concentrating on something. Slowly, he stepped over, his left foot making solid contact with the water. Placing his right foot over, ripples formed around his feet, but he didn't sink.

Taking a few uncertain steps, he turned around and smiled nervously at his would be employer. Certain he wouldn't sink, he took off running across the Olympic length pool, skimming across the top at breakneck speed.

Once he returned to his starting point, he stepped back into the ledge, then down onto the concrete, dry as he was at the beginning of the interview.

"Dios mio, what did you say your name was?" He was effectively taken aback.

"Jesus."

The older man looked at him with wide eyes. Far be it from him to deny divine intervention.

"Son, you're hired!"


	5. A Very Important Matter

Don't tell me you've never had a conversation like this with your friends. ;)

* * *

"We should do it." The blonde girl looked up from her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, giving her best friends a look of firm conviction.

"Guys?" Cassandra knew where this conversation was going.

"We should so totally do it." Hazel grinned back at the two, pushing her braids out of her face.

"Uh... guys?" The brunette wondered if she should bother protesting.

"What should our name be?" Having known each other for as long as they had, they hardly had to ask what 'it' was.

They'd also had this conversation every lunch period for the past month.

"Super duper X-treme X girls!" Amanda grinned, visions of herodom dancing through her mind.

"Hellooooooo?" Cassandra knew her objection would go unheeded, but figured it was her job as 'the practical' one to try anyway.

"No way, we soul be the X26's!" Amanda rolled her eyes, certain her name was superior.

"Dude, why didn't I think of that one!" Hazel loved the idea- all of their birthdays happened to fall on the twenty-sixth of the month. It was after all, how the three girls had met, and knew instantly that they were destined to be best friends forever.

"Aye, you guys are forgetting one important thing."

"What is it Cassie?"

"Que tonto." She couldn't help the insult slipping out. But they deserved it!

"Hey, what did we do to you?" Amanda always had been confrontational.

"You guys want to make a super hero team?" She stated the obvious.

"Why shouldn't we?"

"We're in seventh grade."

"So?"

"We're girls."

"Cassie! We so totally have girl power." Hazel, ever the enthusiastic one, took on heroic pose from her seat at the long boardinghouse type table.

"You're forgetting one important thing."

"What?"

"None of us are mutants." Well then, that just opened up a free for all.

"My powers'll be coming in any day now." Amanda stated matter of factly.

"And I've been getting this tingling feeling whenever I-"

"Hazel, that's called puberty."

"You're just jealous." The girl pouted.

"Yeah, you don't have curves or powers!" The blonde retorted, sending the two girls into a fit of giggles.

"I love you guys, but you're crazy." Cassandra never did get the antics those two carried on with half of the time.

"It's ok. Once you get your powers, we'll let you on the team anyway 'cause we're cool like that."

"I don't get you guys." The brunette picked up her lunch tray and stomped out of the cafeteria.

Amanda sighed and looked forlornly after her friend. Oh, she was annoyed now, she would get her back in the worst way possible.

"That's it, she gets last pick of code names."


	6. Deepest Desires

I wanted to give an overdue thanks to the people who reviewed. You make my day like no other!

This is a darker drabbel, and although nothing explicit is actually written, it's implied. I like this one a lot, even if the idea is a bit disturbing.

* * *

Beauty doesn't mean much to me.

People tell me I'm beautiful, lovely, stunning, and any other synonym for being physically attractive all the time. I'd rather they compliment a less mercurial aspect of my person.

But if I don't hear it enough, I start to have my doubts.

Strange thing that, coming from a metamorph.

I can be whatever anyone wants me to be, fulfill any fantasy my clients may have.

Male, female, young, old, fat, thin, dark, fair, the girl next door, the president of the United States, or the fiery centaur from your favorite fantasy novel.

If you can imagine it, I can be it. And I will provide it.

Anything you want, _anyone_ you want- yours for one night.

Or however long you're willing to pay for.

But not without a heavy fee. My unique services are worth it, don't you think?

Don't shake your head at me, think about what this really means.

_Anyone_ you want can be yours- but I don't say no.

It doesn't matter if I've lost myself along the way.

A girl's got to make a living.


	7. Mutant or Miracle?

This was inspired by Contagiously Funny's review, so thank you very much! I don't mean for it to come across as offensive at all. Don't ask me where it came from, but I read that, and this popped into my mind.

I am very tempted to flesh this out and turn it into a story. If I tried it, would anyone read it?

* * *

"Welcome to ABC news. Today's top story: Mutant or Miracle? Could Jesus' divine powers have derived from a mutant ability? Stay tuned for more on the controversy sparked by one young journalist."

It was eight AM, and the morning news shows had just come on. Tracy, my best friend and photojournalist had called me and told me to turn on the TV.

I had been tempted to hang up on her and go back to sleep, but needless to say, my attention had now been caught.

"Oh no. Nonononono, that is _not_ what I meant!" I threw the remote at my TV, but it fell about a foot short. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.

"Bet you're awake now." I could just imagine her smirk from the other end.

"Tray, is what they're doing even legal?"

"You mean reporting the news? As news reporters… yeah, I think so."

"It's too early in the morning for sarcasm. Small words. Less snark."

"If it's published and out there for public consumption, they can talk about it all they want. Freedom of speech. Ain't it grand?"

"Wonderful. Did these people even read the article? It's about a _kid_ named Jesus, who happens to be able to walk on water. It's a cute story. One of those 'too weird to be false' cases."

"Yes, I've always thought irony was adorable."

"I mean it! That one was a feel good article about a mutant who was able to use his abilities to his advantage without being lynched for it. Lord knows it doesn't happen nearly enough."

"Don't you mean 'Jesus knows'?"

"Shut it."

"That's what you get for being a mutant advocate."

"Well someone has to be."

"You mean it makes for profitable journalism."

"No, I mean it. I really believe that someone needs to get out there and show people that mutants are human just like everyone else. That's what the column is about."

"Of course you do. But at least you can be sure of one thing."

"What's that?"

"Whatever your motivations are, your career is about to explode."


	8. Internal Conflicts, External Hypocrisy

This series is getting more reviews than I ever thought it would. It makes me so happy to write what comes naturally to me and have people like it. I'm also glad to see I'm not the only one who wonders what the life of your average mutant would be like. So thankyouthankyouthankyou a million times over. :)

Also, new LJ for anyone who's interested: **ispork** . Not much up yet, mainly my random thoughts on all things fandom/fanfic related. Add it, you know you want to. ;)

* * *

"I'm sorry my son, I simply cannot allow you to be a youth pastor."

"I don't mean to be disrespectful Father, but why not?"

"There are certain types we cannot allow to influence the youth of our church."

"Father, didn't you say that if the devil himself came to you asking to be reformed, you'd take him under your wing and show him the error of his ways?" The Pastor had said just that during the sermon he had made not one hour ago. William had been so inspired by the statement, that he decided he would look into becoming more involved with Holy Rosary.

The sermon had given him hope.

Reality had taken it away.

"Yes, well that's not very likely to happen, is it?"

"No sir, but I'm hardly the devil."

"That my son, depends upon who you ask."

William nodded, disappointed in the figure before him, who called himself a man of God.

He had moved to the city just over a year ago. Having come from a small town in the Midwest, he had found New York City to be quite an adjustment.

The first thing he had done was to find a church. He had been active within his little congregation back home, even leading their children's choir.

Most people thought intolerance was bred in little burgs like Hicksville, but he knew otherwise. The community was close knit. When he had sprouted blue feathers at the age of fourteen, he was still William to them.

Even if they had started calling him Blue Boy more often than the name printed on his birth certificate, It was affectionate. He was somewhat of a novelty to them. Hicksville now had its very own mutant!

And they loved him.

He had found more hate in the city by far- He supposed there was more of everything here.

More opportunity, which had led him to make the move in the first place.

And more hypocrisy , which showed its twofaced visage in the most unexpected and unwelcome of ways.

William got up to leave, when the Pastor called him back.

"You will be coming next Sunday, won't you?"


	9. Sporks

Inspired by an actual spork. Of the fic variety. So what if it was for another story I'm writing, who am I to be picky about what forms my muses come in? ;)

Thank you again to everyone who reviewed, the good and the bad. I guess it's about time I learned that I can't please everyone.

* * *

"I don't think you're supposed to like that." Ben rolled his eyes at his older brother and made a mental note to stay out of his reach for the next several hours.

"Says you." Jason was sitting in front of the farther these wall in their bedroom, his face approximately one foot away from its blank white surface.

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" Jay may have thought he had things under control, but Ben always wondered if it was a good idea to walk around with that sort of ability untrained. Much less try to make it stronger.

"I wouldn't try it if I were you, but I'm not. So bug off." It didn't matter what the squirt thought, _he_ knew what he was doing.

"Leave that poor fork alone."

"It's a spork actually."

"I thought sporks were plastic."

"Would a plastic spork carry a charge?" Idiot. The younger boy obviously had no idea what he was talking about.

"Either way, I don't think you're supposed to be doing that."

"How else am I supposed to charge up?"

"There has to be another way to do that. Just because you can store up electricity and zap people with it doesn't mean you should walk around sticking forks-"

"Sporks!"

"Sporks… into electrical sockets."

"You just say that because you've never tried it." Until Ben could think of a better way to build up a charge in the middle of their suburban home, he would keep doing what worked for him.

"Jay, it would probably kill me."

"Go for it. Then I'd be an only child, and I wouldn't have to share a bedroom."

"I hope you electrocute yourself."

"Careful short stuff, or I'll zap you in your sleep." He had already done that three times this week.

"Mom said she'd ground you if you did that again." It had been a long week. Scorched skin and blond 'fros were not his thing.

"Go jump out a window"

Ben went to the went to the window of their third story bedroom, which was already open due to the summer heat. Perching himself on the sill, he let the sunshine pour over him. Looking towards the sky momentarily, he could hear his brother's exaggerated sigh from behind him.

Without another thought, he leapt.

It was days like this that he was extremely grateful to have the power of flight.


	10. Homeostasis

Something lighter next time, I promise.  
--------------------------------------------------------------

I've never had a cold, a flu, so much as a sniffle or a sore throat. My temperature will never read anything other than 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

Dehydration on a summer day? Never.

Blood pressure rising with age? Not for me.

Shouldn't it be enough?

Standing at five feet and five inches, I will never weigh any more or less than one hundred and twenty five pounds. No matter how much I eat. No matter how little.

I can bleach my hair and tan myself to into a carbon copy of what passes for perfection, though the dirty blonde hair and brown eyes aren't so bad, really.

So shouldn't it be enough?

My mutation is one that many would call a blessing, and one I should too. Baring serious injury, I will always stay in perfect health. Absolute homeostasis.

Not a healing factor, but more like a tonic. My body will age, but slowly, gracefully, staying always in this form.

No famine will take my figure, even if it's self imposed.

Ideal in a text book manner, stable, never changing, the all American woman.

More than ordinary, but less than perfect.

It _should_ be enough.

But it's not.


	11. White Bears

"… and whatever you do, don't think of a white bear."

"No problem."

I am taking part in a time honored tradition which all broke college students do at some point or another. It's something you can only do when you're this young, out in the world, and are this broke.

I am selling my body.

There are many methods in which one may do this. Some work at strip clubs, some sell their eggs, and those of us who wish to retain a slightly higher amount of dignity take part in medical research.

All types of medical research. The ones I qualify for usually pay pretty well too. After all, not many are willing to put themselves out there, proclaim they're a mutant, then head with the nice nurse back into the doctor's office where they hook you up to god knows what to measure whatever it is they're measuring.

I tell people it's my effort to help further the field of mutant medicine, but mostly it's the nice five hundred dollar or so checks I get as a result of 'donating' a few hours of my time. It means I get to pay me rent on time _and_ eat this week! If that's not a cause for celebration, I don't know what is.

Today's experiment is a psychological survey sponsored by one of the more liberal psych practices in town. The purpose? To prove that mutants have the same responses as humans do on traditional psychological tests.

I'm all for proving that mutants are as normal as humans when it comes down to stuff like that. I'm just not sure I'm the best one to prove that point.

Nevertheless, here I was in a room with a double sided mirror, a table with a buzzer on it, and a lovely psychologist sitting across from me.

The task was simple: I had to talk for five minutes about whatever crossed my mind, but I couldn't think of a white bear. Every time I did, I had to ring the buzzer.

Simple stuff.

"I'm starting the timer… now." The psychologist in front of me started the timer on a small handheld stopwatch.

Right then. How hard could it be not to think of a white-

_Buzz!_

"Alrighty! So I'm supposed to say whatever's on my mind. Let's see… well did you know I almost didn't get here in time? See, it all started when a cockroach ejected itself out of my DVD player. Normally I clean my apartment every day- you know how the bug problem is around here, but my boyfriend came over.

_Buzz!_

"Ah, heh…. Well, it's not that my boyfriend reminds me of a-

_Buzz!_

"Right. My boyfriend. My bedroom. Ummm… I mean… that is to say we kept each other… occupied-

_Buzz!_

"Oh god. I don't mean that sex reminds me of a-

_Buzz!_

"I didn't get to clean! That's all there is to it. I didn't get to clean. Geez, that kind of made it seem like I have a fetish about-

_Buzz!_

"I don't. Have a fetish about that thing I'm definitely not thinking about. Really."

_Buzz! _

"Moving on! Back to the gigantic flying roach. Someone ought to check those things for mutant genes. Because bugs that big and that nasty can't be natural. And you should have seen how fast that thing flew by my face! We're talking mere inches away, and that thing flung itself against the wall on the other side of the room and hung on for dear life. I don't know what the projection speed on that thing was, but maybe that's normal when cockroaches eject themselves out of machinery. But I was traumatized I tell you! I mean I knew the DVD player had been making some weird noises, but I never thought of that, you know? And the sound that thing made as it went. It sounded kind of like a-

_Buzz!_

"Well, I guess that doesn't make much sense of you think about it. How can cockroach possibly sound like a-

_Buzz!_

"The noise was weird, anyway. I mean I may be a mutant human, but I swear I had a mutant roach living in my DVD player. Better than a white-

_Buzz!_

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm not good at-

"Your time is up Miss Garcia. Thank you for your participation." The older woman showed me to the door .

"Guess I didn't do you much good in proving your point, did I?" With my luck I'd not only disprove their theory, but find myself bunking in a room with nice white padded walls from now on.

"You performed exactly as we expected you to. In all honesty, your reactions were perfectly normal." She gave me a reassuring smile that _almost_ hid the traces of humor in her eyes.

"Really? I'm normal? How weird!"


	12. The Santa Experience

"Thank you so much for making my daughter's first visit to Santa so magical. You know, this mall really does have the best Santa experience in town." The blond woman bounced her one and a half year old daughter on her hip as she made a somewhat awkward maneuver to pull her credit card out of her wallet with one hand.

"Thank _you_ Mrs. Kodaly." I smiled my cheery smile, reserved just for grateful customers as I rang up her photo package and put the prints in matching red and green envelopes.

"Raaaaaaaaaaaaaay! There's something wrong with the camera again!" Gilbert, aka Gill called from his current position behind the camera.

"I'm with a customer, Gill." I said, bright smile never faltering as I bagged the now packaged photos and put a few stickers in the bag for the well behaved little girl.

Mrs.Kolday laughed, picking up her bag then taking her daughter's hand so she 'waved' goodbye as they turned and left.

Gill grabbed my shoulders and marched me over to the camera, the bells on his colorful elf hat jingling all the way. "Fix it."

"You know, you're going to have to call the company about this at some point." I crossed my arms, and acted for a split second as though I wasn't going to cooperate.

"Your way is faster."

"My way isn't a permanent solution."

"Come on, before we get busy again. The last thing I need is to deal with a slow computer to camera connection AND controlling a bratty kid at the same time." His tone was no nonsense, but it really was rather difficult to take a grown man in an elf costume seriously.

"Fine. But if I fix this, you take register until lunch." He normally ran the register anyway, but I had to at least make it look as though I were putting up a fight.

"Honey, you are fabulous." He jangled his way over to the register.

"I know." I flashed him a grin before turning my attention to the computer system in front of me. I am the tech girl/main photographer at our little Santa set.

To be honest, I don't really know how I do what I do. It has something to do with electromagnetic pulses, and scrambling the computer processors into thinking everything is running correctly after things start to go wrong. Long story short: I think at the malfunctioning piece of technology, and it starts working again.

Or I fry it beyond repair and cause half the block to loose power.

It's a fragile balance.

Looking at the screen, sure enough it's not even done processing the pictures from the family that had come in after Mrs. Kolday. Luckily enough we haven't had any other customers come in, but the lull won't last long.

The happy family of four is waiting not quite patiently on the other side of the counter, and it would be up to Gill to vamp until I could straighten up the system and convince it that it wanted to process these pictures, print them, and do so in a timely fashion.

Placing my hands on the keyboard, I concentrate and send the slightest of pulses through the computer system. Like I had said before, it wasn't a permanent solution, but it would keep things running smoothly for a few hours at least. I could actually _fix_ the problem, but that would mean I'd have to know the ins and outs of how these programs actually operate. Which I don't. For a girl with my abilities, I am shockingly clueless about technology.

As long as what I do works, that's what matters, right?

The order had been placed on the desk, and I set to printing out the photos. It seemed as though the system was working properly.

"You are a miracle worker!" Gill grabbed the pictures as soon as the printer had spit them out, and handed them over. He gave a wave as they walked away bickering amongst themselves. "What total brats." He spoke sotto voice, still smiling brightly.

"They're toddlers, what do you expect?" I looked at the pictures of the two child family that were still displayed on the computer screen- one boy that looked about four years old, and a little girl who seemed about two. Their behavior was seemingly as perfect as their smiles- at least for the two and a half seconds it had taken to snap the photo.

"I meant the parents." He deadpanned.

"So what, work your 'magic' on them the same way you do the kids." You see, I wasn't the only 'miracle worker' on the Santa set. Gil, as it turned out, was a telepath. And a not to shabby one at that. If a child looked like they were going to give Santa a hard time, in stepped Gill.

No crying babies in Santa's lap here, no sir!

Every picture was a winner, sure to be Christmas card and frame worthy.

We were, by far, the most popularly successful Santa station in the city.

"Nah, they're not worth the effort." He shrugged, going over to check on Santa, who had taken to entertaining himself by causing the tips of his gloves to light up in various different colors. I wasn't sure _what_ his ability was, but I figured I'd find out sooner or later.

X-men, eat your heart out.

We were Team Santa.

And we have our own brand of Christmas magic here, and it's all thanks one little chromosome known as the X gene.

* * *

AN: Long time no write! But after doing nanowrimo, I've been inspired once again. I'm tempted to make an Everyday People: Holiday Edition type thing... what do you think, yes? No? I'm also tempted to write something that follows this Santa team. Should I go for it? 


	13. Don't Let The Light Go Out

_'Never forget the song of your people Madela, never forget.'_

The voice of Jenifer's grandmother lilted through her mind as she lost herself in the light of the candles in her small apartment. One lone candle shone on the far left side of the menorah as the S_hammash candle _ stood tall, reflecting in the dark mirrored windows behind the book shelf the menorah had been placed on.

It wasn't the first Hanukkah she had spent away from home, but it was the first one she had spent alone.

This year had been filled with the unexpected and often unpleasant surprises that came with growing up. When she had moved to the city to fulfill her dreams, it had all been planed out so perfectly in her mind.

The reality had been... somewhat different.

In her mind, it didn't matter that she was different. The fact that she was a mutant hardly came up at all really. At home, those who knew didn't care- they knew _her_, and that was all that mattered. She had always been told that talent was what mattered most, and with her classic beauty, who would care if she had blue hair?

Or pink. Or green. Or orange. Or puce. All in the span of one day.

Chewing on the edge on her pinky nail, she fought the urge to run her hands through her hair- which was currently a shade of murky green. The headache which was slowly pounding in her temples alerted her to the fact that her hair was growing in once again, in a shade of muddy gray. Jenifer's fleeting glance at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she had passed by left her thinking that she looked like the bastard child of Swamp Thing and the Bride of Frankenstein.

Quite an unfitting appearance for a ballerina.

Or former ballerina she thought bitterly. The contracts that were going to be renewed for the 2007 season had been renewed this week.

Hers was not among them.

But she still had to finish her run of The Nutcracker.

In one more week, she would have no more income. And this was a fact that scared the twenty year old girl out of her mind.

It didn't matter that Christmas was coming up, it never dawned on any of the heads of the company that this week was Hanukkah, and that the candles were _supposed_ to be lit as dusk.

And maybe in the end, it didn't really matter that she was a mutant either.

Class one with a useless power that was unfortunately rather obvious.

"_Madela, our people have been persecuted since before recorded history. But we are strong. Stronger than those who would destroy us for our very existence. They have tried to exterminate us, but still we survive. You are a light, a Bat Mitzvah, a daughter of the chosen people." In her mind's eye, Jenifer could see her grandmother sitting before her antique menorah. Flames dancing in tiny pots of oil, reflecting their warm glow in the old woman's large dark eyes. Eyes like her own, and perhaps the one trait which gave away her Ashkenazi heritage. "No matter the reason for your persecution, you will survive."_

That had been just over a year ago, before she left her small town for Boston and a chance at her dream. Her grandmother had been so proud of her.

She died six months later, and Jenifer had not been allowed leave for the funeral. She had been told coldly, but politely that if she left, her job would not be waiting for her upon her return. Her family had said they understood, and that her grandmother would have also. She had thought she was all right with her decision to stay in Boston.

But on nights like this she wondered if it had been a betrayal after all. Her family had never minded the fact that she was a mutant, but to most it was simply something that was not brought up.

Her grandmother had been the first to berate them for being squeamish about the topic. How could they dare shun one of their own, their precious daughter over something that was as much a part of her heritage as their own songs, prayers, and traditions? From the lighting of the Shabbat candles to the god awful Manishevitz wine that flowed too freely at family celebrations. This was who Jenifer Goldberg was. A part of the Goldberg family who was _interesting_- who had the guts to be a ballerina and not a doctor or lawyer like the rest of the family. And the ever changing hair colors? It made for a colorful spot in family portraits. As long as she cleaned the drain after her hair fell out after her morning shower, what was there to complain about?

It was nights like this that Jenny missed her grandmother the most.

Coming home at eleven in the evening with bruised toes and aching muscles, the first thing she wanted to was take a hot shower and fall into bed.

But as though she were waiting in the small living room with matchbook in hand, she herd the all too familiar voice _'Bubbila, did you remember to light the candles?'_

So she did. The first two prayers had been said. But the third prayer, said only on the first night of Hanukkah, she was having a difficult time beginning.

Dusk had come and gone. Upon hearing the news of her impending unemployment, she had found it difficult to muster her usual passion for tonight's Nutcracker performance. Did it really have to do with the fact that she was a mutant? Or was it because perhaps, even after all these years of dedication and training, she didn't have what it took to be a professional ballet dancer after all? It would have been easier to blame the former, yet she had a suspicion that in reality, it may have been the later.

Either way, the words of the S_hehecheyanu_ would not form on her lips.

How could she thank God for sustaining her and bringing her to this season when it seemed as though the ground was falling out from under her feet before it had even had the chance to form?

But no, she would not allow herself to think like that. All things happened for a reason. She would not blame nameless talking heads that ran the business end of ballet companies, or God, or a twist of genetic fate for her hard times.

Her cheeks stung softly from her quiet tears as she fought yet another internal battle.

She would never, ever, allow anyone to take her faith from her.

Staring once again at the reflection of the two lights on the menorah in the window, she could have sworn she saw her grandmother staring back at her, sixty years younger than she had been the last time Jenifer saw her. The smile was small and peaceful, loving and accepting. It was her own.

With peace in her heart, she knew she could express the prayer in earnest.

_Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_

_shehecheyanu v'kiyimanu v'higi'anu laz'man hazeh._

She meant every word.

* * *

This is the same Jenny as in the first and third vignettes, I thought it was about time to check in on her for the holiday season. It's defiantly not the same light hearted tone as the last few have been.

I want to thank everyone who reviewed sosososososo much, and everyone who's read up to this point. I did start on the Team Santa story, and I'll probably add a part or two to it in the next week or so. This just spilled out and begged to be written before then... it's much more religious than I indented it to be, but in the light of the situation, I think it fits.

A small glossary in case anyone needs it-

_Madela- _Yiddish, meaning small girl, little girl, along those lines.

S_hammash- _the highest candle on the menorah, the ninth candle, the one used lit first and used to light the other eight candles

_Bat Mitzvah_- daughter of the Torah

_Ashkenazi- _A European Jew

S_hehecheyanu-_

_Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_

Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe

_shehecheyanu v'kiyimanu v'higi'anu laz'man hazeh_

who has given us life, sustained us, and allowed us to reach this day.


	14. Cupcakes

"No, no, and no."

"Come on, you have to!"

"It's tradition!"

"And the fireworks aren't working."

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

* * *

"And that was why you attempted to blow up a cup cake?" The only doctor on call who had agreed to take the case of the mutant who had come in on the fairly slow afternoon of New Year's day stared at the young woman in front him. Mutant or not, the girl seemed harmless, despite the feelings of the nurse who had taken her vitals upon admission to the emergency room.

"Well, I might have had a drink or two..." Sofia chewed nervously on her bottom lip and tried to retain the last shred of her dignity as she told the tale of how she had managed to receive a second degree burn just below her eye from scalding hot cupcake icing.

"It was New Year's Eve." Was this how post college kids entertained themselves these days? Dr. Vincia recalled a few of the less spectacular stunts he had pulled for the sake of 'entertainment' when he was just out of med school. Perhaps things had not changed as much as he thought.

"Or three or four..." As Sofia thought to herself that showing off one's powers to one's friends while under the influence might not have been the brightest idea after all.

"But you said the fireworks you had weren't working."

"Oh, they were working just fine. They just weren't doing much damage to the cupcake." She was starting to wonder just which one of her friends had come up with this stupid tradition in the first place. It had to be one of the guys. The whole 'Blowing Things Up Is _COOL_' mentality was distinctly male, and certainly not the kind of thing she would involve herself in. At least while sober.

"Then you somehow managed to blow it up using your mutant ability?" He had a hard time believing this girl, who quite frankly reminded him of his kid sister, could possess such an ability. Mutants like that were hardened, dangerous and psychotic. Not freckle faced and cute. Her ability should have been something fitting. Like spraying glitter and flowers from her fingertips.

"More like melted." Sofia looked everywhere but at the doctor in front of him.

"How do you melt a cupcake?" Dr. Vincia spouted out before he could help himself. Baked goods were not typically the kind of object one associated with melting.

"I guess melting isn't technically the best term for it. More like... turned it into a pile of goo." She supposed it had something to do with changing the composition of an object on a molecular level, but she wasn't exactly sure. However it worked, the object in question turned into a sticky mess with little more than a concentrated thought.

The doctor looked slightly alarmed at her explanation.

"Oh no! Don't worry, I can only do it to little things. Nothing bigger than a small dog or so." In her rush to calm the Dr. Vincia's worries, she hadn't thought that her analogy might not have been the most comforting one she could have used. "Oh God! Not that I've tried to melt a small dog. Or anything alive for that matter! I mean I guess technically I might be able to do it. I've thought about trying to melt roaches before. That way I wouldn't have to smack them with my shoe and get that awful crunching sound, but cleaning up melted roach would just be gross. Umm... but I don't think I can melt anything alive, so you're safe." Sofia left out the little incident of when she had tried to melt her boyfriend during their last fight, but obviously it hadn't worked. His cry of 'Babe, you're making me hot!' had been misinterpreted by her, consequently leading to her dropping her attempt to engage in the best makeup sex she had ever had.

There was no need for the good doctor to know that little bit, now was there?

"Good to know." He still decided to be careful with this one. Better safe than sorry. "Now, why did you wait so long to come in?"

"I was sort of hoping it would go away on its own..."

"You have a blister the size of a quarter less then half an inch from your eye. Do you have any idea how lucky you were?" Luckier than she knew, that much was certain.

"I thought I'd be able to run away in time. I've done it before. Put cupcake on firework, melt cupcake, light firework, then get outta dodge. I just didn't expect the icing to fly that far, and..." Sofia stopped as she realized just how idiotic she sounded. Not that her friends hadn't been there for her after she had gotten hurt, but none of them were in any sort of shape to drive anywhere. None of them could deny the fact that the incident had been morbidly entertaining, but calling an ambulance would have been overkill. "Well the swelling just didn't go away. And then the blister formed. And I figured I was better safe than sorry, you know? Even if it's a day late."

"I can't argue with that. But promise me one thing. Don't do anything like that again." The number of people coming into emergency rooms after disastrous run ins with their mutant powers was increasing daily. The mortality rate of said cases was staggering, for all the wrong reasons. The last thing Dr.Vincia wanted was for this girl to become a statistic.

"No more mixing melted objects and explosives, I swear." She chided herself for her immaturity. How old was she, twenty one going in fourteen?

"Well I have good news for you. It'll be just fine. Odds are it won't even leave a scar. I'm just going to put some antibiotic cream on this and cover it with a gauze bandage. Keep doing the same thing at home, and it should heal nicely within a few weeks." He went to the supply cabinet, contemplating the girl and her situation as he reached for the top shelf where the bandages were. He was tempted to tell her to not to use her abilities, since the risks most likely outweighed the benefits. Or that she should get training of some sort, since she was probably much more powerful than she realized. He shuttered to think just how she might end up learning that difficult lesson, and hoped she never would. She seemed like a good kid. But such things were not his area of expertise, and were quite frankly none of his business. Instead he stuck to standard advice. "If the burn doesn't heal within two weeks, go see your primary physician. In the mean time, stay out of trouble, alright?"

"Sure thing doc." If she could find a doctor that was willing to see her, she'd do just that.

* * *

AN:Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, alerts and such. I'm so glad that there are people out there who like this, as random as it is. Quite frankly I'm surprised that this has gotten as many reviews as it has, considering the plethora of OCs and complete lack of cannon characters. But I suppose that's what this is all about. I really do appreciate the each and every review of them sososo much! Thanks again! 


	15. Heavy Burden

"I'm sorry, I can't smell the ghost." How many times would he have to tell her that it didn't work like that?

"But you can see him, can't you?" Carla was a sweet middle aged woman who liked to believe that she could sense the presence of spirits. She was a self proclaimed sensitive, but not a mutant. Oh no, never a mutant.

"I'm sorry Carla, as far as I can tell there's nothing out of the ordinary around you." Well, at least nothing involving the supernatural. The bum that was eying her car with a squeegee in his left hand and an old rag in his right might have been considered out of the ordinary. Then again they were in in middle of downtown Miami.

So perhaps not.

"Jason, I can smell him. It's _his_ smell." Her short black hair whipped around her face, adding a dramatic effect to her forlorn expression. "Alcohol and old cigarettes." She looked up to the sky, as though the wind might blow away the memories associated by the smell.

"Carla, it could just be the bum." By her quick intake of breath, he realized that had been the wrong thing to say. One of those stupid mistakes guys make all too frequently when talking to women. He may have had the ability to see energy most people associated with the presence of spirits, but it didn't help him understand the female species any more than he had before the ghost vision had kicked in. And that was pushing ten years ago. "It could be anyone. Anything for that matter, alive or dead."

"I saw your eyes go white! That's what always happens whenever you... you..." She reached for his arm, eyes searching for an answer she wanted to hear.

"Whenever I see what might be a ghost." They had stopped walking, and found themselves standing in the middle of their employee parking lot. It was oddly deserted for quarter after five. "But Carla, we work in a hospital. Death is a part of life here." And he wished to hell that he had some sort of control over what happened whenever he saw something that triggered his eyes to go white, but he didn't. Working in the morgue, he saw these things so frequently that he didn't even notice when it happened any more. It wasn't as though his eyes _felt_ any different. He hadn't even noticed the effect until someone had pointed it out to him. At his great aunt's funeral. That had been a fun one to explain.

"You don't understand, it's been following me around all day. I feel him. I _know_ it's him. I just need to make sure." She needed to know so much more than that. If her father was happy. If he was proud of her. If he was disappointed in her for stopping her education after she had gotten certified as a registered nurse instead of going for her doctorate like she had promised she would. If he understood that life sometimes got in the way of childhood dreams. If he knew about his grandchildren. If he was as proud of them as she was. And if he knew she had forgiven him for all those nights he had come home drunk to terrorize her mother and her siblings. If things any of that even mattered once you had passed the land of the living.

These were the thoughts that had been lingering in her mind when she first picked up on the smell that made her cringe as a child, while she was making her rounds in the intensive care unit. Carla knew the smell of death. It was unfortunately, one that was rather familiar to the nurse.

This was different. It didn't linger in one area, it followed her from room to room and down the hall. It had dissipated when she went to the cafeteria for lunch, but returned shortly before she had seen Jason briefly that afternoon.

His eyes had been white then, but not any more. They were their normal shade of dark brown. But the smell still lingered. Fainter than it had been before, but present.

Carla had considered herself lucky when she saw him walking towards the parking lot and had sprinted over to talk to him.

Now she wasn't so sure why she had.

Confirmation. The woman needed confirmation, whether or not his abilities confirmed what she thought she had witnessed. This was the burden his gift caused him to carry. If he had his way, he'd ignore it entirely. He certainly wouldn't volunteer information that those left behind by the dead may or may not want to hear.

But worse than that was when people came to seek him out for information. What was he supposed to do when there was nothing to tell? He couldn't call ghosts. He couldn't make them appear. And even when they did, he could only pass along a message if they had something to say. So many times they didn't.

It was left to him to fill in the blanks.

But what if he got the information wrong? What if he didn't say what they wanted to hear? And what if he _had_ missed something? Mutation may have seem it fitting to give him some sort of ability to see beyond this life, but it was hardly infallible.

If Carla was so sure that her father had been with her today, who was he to say otherwise? He hardly knew her. He didn't know her father at all. If she felt his presence, it was probably there. Even if it wasn't, she needed it to be.

Jason concentrated on the area around the woman in in front of her, her reflection in the windows of the cars around them, and the steal jungle that rose into the sky around them. There was certainly plenty to pick up on, but none of it involved Carla.

"Your eyes! That means... of god, Jason, did you see him?" She was breathless, hoping against all hope that she hadn't been wrong after all.

"He's with you." He whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the cars passing by. Ignoring the ache that had taken hold of the center of his chest, he told her what she needed to hear. It may not have been the right thing to do, but telling her the truth would only have hurt her more. And to what end? There was no reason to do so. It was just another day that his mutation had forced him to lie. Not to cover up what he was, but to keep from hurting a venerable soul. "He's with you. Always."


	16. Sonatine

As huge and competitive as the music industry was, it was also, as one could put it, a small world after all.

The last thing Maya had expected when walking in to her audition at the New England Conservatory was to see her middle school piano teacher as the dean of music.

She didn't let it phase her- even if they hadn't left on the best of terms, that was years ago. She was no longer an awkward, somewhat rebellious thirteen year old, and the very air about the man had suggested he had changed from the severely strict task master he had once been. Maybe age changed things, she was an adult now, looking for a Master's degree.

But he knew things about her. He knew the one thing that would keep her out of the school regardless of how lyrically expressive and seamlessly she could play. If nerves didn't get in her way.

As open minded as the arts community was about so many things, it was never quite as liberated as it liked to think it was. And if it came down to her or another applicant that were an even match in every other way, the _normal_ would be accepted to this oh so selective program. And her? Well... that wouldn't be any of their concern.

It was strange in retrospect, how none of this had crossed her mind as she walked into the classroom. The hour she had spent in the practice room warming up to perfection had brought the span of the world down to one thing: the program she was about to present. It was zen in a way, spiritual enlightenment through embracing the immortal musical masters of Bach and Mozart while grounding herself with contemporary masters like Dutilleux. Maya did not 'play', she expressed.

She only prayed it showed enough for the panel of professors and deans before her to notice. It was over in a heart beat . A blur of introductions, handshakes and smiles she hoped were genuine. Disappointed with some pieces, overjoyed with one in particular- the inordinately difficult Dutilleux _Sonatine. _Which was, coincidently the only piece which earned her the simple praise of 'Good. Very good.'

That's the way audition judges always were though. Quiet and oh so sure never to give a thing away either way.

While she wasn't completely satisfied with her performance, she left smiling over the fact that she had, for the first time, absolutely owned that damned Dutilleux . Maybe she'd focus on contemporary music once she got in... it spoke to her in a way that the strict structure of classical form simply could not touch. '_Yes_' she thought as she walked down the dimly lit hall '_this is the life I want.'_

"Maya!" One of the men who had just watched her audition, one who had spoken to her at length, but not been particularly friendly, sprinted down the hall after her.

"Yes?" She had been about to press the button for the elevator, but turned around, heart flooding with expectation. Halfway expecting some Hollywood Perfect moment where he would tell her she had been accepted immediately (and offered full scholarship, of course!), her eyes brightened as she beamed towards the man who, she now noticed, was approaching her with a carefully neutral expression planted on his face.

"Are you a mutant?" His voice was hushed, careful not to draw the attention of anyone who might have been passing by.

Maya froze, feeling her heart flop awkwardly in her chest. What did that matter? It hadn't come up in the audition, why the hell bring it up now? It wasn't as though she looked out of the ordinary. Could she lie about this? Should she? No. Mr.Poldini- Professor Poldini? Dean Poldini? Whatever his appropriate title was now, knew the truth. Piano lessons during middle school were by no means an abnormal occurrence. Neither were the emergence of unusual abilities at the age of thirteen- if you happened to be a mutant. But before said abilities were under control; that is to say before she had learned to hide and ignore them, it was somewhat of a scandal. Once it had come out that Maya was 'special' Mr.Poldini had not shown up for her weekly lesson. Or the next one, or the week after that. Phone calls were never returned. It had been a tough lesson, one that her parents had tried to shelter her from. But she knew the truth. One did not deserve beautiful things like music, or to be taught by talented teachers unless they hid their freakish nature.

None of that mattered now. He knew.

"Maya?" Back in the present, this man, _not_ Mr.Poldini was becoming slightly impatient.

___'Lie, lie! Give them something decent to put down on paper!'_her logic tried to tell her, but oddly pale and flushed at the same time, her mouth would not form the deception. "Yes. Technically. But... it's nothing really. It's not like I can do anything with it." She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and silently kissed all her aspirations of getting into the school goodbye.

"I see." Unceremoniously, he turned around and disappeared back down the hall he had materialized from.

She was able to keep the broad professional smile until she left the building. Her expression had turned only slightly forlorn by the time she reached the bus station. Slamming the door to her duplex closed behind her, the sobs burst forth from her chest in short staccato notes, reminding her vaguely of a wounded bird. And that was what she was, instrument case flung away from her without regard in a bizarre display of spite towards her beloved flute.

'Why even bother?' She wondered vaguely.

Why indeed?

Perfect pitch and perfect pitch memorization were not mutant abilities. She was as good as she was because she worked at it. Expressive ability as she had may indeed have been something she was born with, but it was hardly derived from an X gene. And on a bad day all of that went down the drain, nervous, inconsistent, imperfect.

It wasn't as though she didn't have that _other_ ability. And occasionally, she even enjoyed the fact now that she had learned enough control to hide it. Its only flaw was the fact that it showed up on blood tests, forever marring her medical records with a large red M. Basic test results that read the same whether you had the ability control space an time or whether you could glow in the dark on command. She supposed the ability to make people sneeze on command fit in that scale somewhere, but her little secret wasn't good for much more than perverse amusement when one got bored during various public functions.

A sudden thought hit her- would Mozart have been brought under fire for being a mutant if he had been alive today? Musical genius on such a grand scale surely had to be something outside the realm of human ability. And if he had been ridiculed as such, would he ever have become the legend that he had?

'It shouldn't matter' she snorted, chiding herself for thinking too much once again. Mozart was long dead, and could she possibly apply her situation to him? Of course not. But she knew, regardless, that when it came to music, auditions and the industry it shouldn't matter anyway. No, it shouldn't.

But it did.


	17. Sanctuary

Jenny rested her fingers lightly on the barre attached to the back wall of the studio. It was nearly midnight, and she could still smell the fresh paint in the dim light that surrounded her. The mirrors reflected the small but elegant space around her, living proof old dreams may fall away, only to be replaced by a bitter-sweet reality.

Miss Uralsky had passed away in the early summer months. The small ballet company had been willed to her talented if somewhat untraditional protégé .

Moved beyond words at the gesture, Jenifer couldn't help but wonder if Miss Uralsky knew something of the future that she didn't. Her ballet mistress had never uttered the words _'you'll be back_' as others had.

And yet she seemed to know what would happen. She had been welcomed back with open arms, and given a class of her own to teach for the very first time.

No matter that the Technicolor bunhead was now the non bunhead- it seemed that one could only regrow their hair so many times before it stopped growing in all together. She could still hear the ballet mistress' voice chiding her with light humor-

"See vhat happen vhen you dye hair too much? Is gone now! But is okay, still very beautiful.'

With a kiss on each cheek, she gently pushed her in the direction of her usual spot at the barre.

It was as though she had never left.

The news of her quiet passing in the night had been saddening, but not unexpected. She was after all, eighty seven years old.

With everything that the former Russian Prima Ballerina had taught her, there were still so many questions burning in Jenifer's mind. Why had she given her the company? Did she really think she could carry on her legacy? More importantly, had she known?

The woman had seemed to have eyes in the back of her head- as all ballet teachers did- but could she see the truth behind the little girl who wanted to be nothing more than _her_, to carry just an ounce of the old world grace that flowed through madam's every movement? Despite the incongruent hair.

The thoughts circled around in her mind, so she did the one thing that could be counted upon to calm them.

_Pli_é _, and up. Pli_é _, and around. Cambr_é _ forward and up. Demi-pli_é _, relev_é _, and down. Grand pli_é _ cambr_é _ back._

Jenifer came out of the back bend, and halfway smiled as she caught her reflection. Sweatshirt aside, the pink bandanna wrapped around her head had become part of her daily uniform. She thought for a moment, that she could pass for some sort of ballerina thug.

There was always _something_ that threw a kink in her efforts to be traditional.

But that was all right. She _was_ different, so why pretend to be anything else? If the biggest problem being a mutant caused her was being bald, she supposed she should consider herself lucky.

And there were other 'non traditional' little ballerinas waiting in the wings, who must have, she thought, taken some comfort in the thought that they were not so alone in their plight to master the most ethereal of all the arts.

She would be there for them if and when they came. Ready to give sanctuary to anyone who had found a home in ballet, just as she had.

* * *

I know I haven't written for a while... I was just hit with this as a closure of sorts for Jenifer, and I had to add it. This will probably be the last of this series, since I don't have a whole lot of time to be online any more. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and read this. I've said it before, and I'll say it again- I am surprised how well this went over, and glad to see that there were as many people out there who wondered what happened to the other not so super powered mutants out there. Thank you again for everything, and I hope you enjoyed it! 


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